


Close Your Eyes and Watch the Stars Fade

by Ad_Absurdum



Category: Music RPF, Real Person Fiction, The Smiths
Genre: Drama, M/M, RPS - Freeform, Smiths Slash Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 21:18:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ad_Absurdum/pseuds/Ad_Absurdum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andy is asked to join the band and Mike isn't bothered. Andy is asked to leave the band and he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close Your Eyes and Watch the Stars Fade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AtomicTortilla (DouseMouse)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DouseMouse/gifts).



> **Disclaimer:** Never happened, all slander and lies.  
>  **A/N:** The fic was written for the Secret Santa exchange over at one of LJ communities. Summary is the prompt the fic was written for. The title was taken from The Hoosiers song "Lovers In My Head" and changed a little. And the fic came out a bit darker than I expected.

"That's it, Andy's out of the band."

"What?!" Mike couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. "I mean... what?"

Morrissey looked at him with something very much like distaste, while Johnny shrugged and blew a cloud of smoke from his cigarette.

"It's for the best," he finally said.

"But how can you? Andy's your best friend. And he'll get better. And..." Mike made a few vague and completely ineffectual gestures before finally settling on an acusing look he moved form Johnny to Morrissey and back again.

"Do you know how many times I've asked Andy to get clean? To stop fucking up his life with that shit?" Johnny was glaring back. "It never worked in the long run.

"I don't see how this time could be any different either." Johnny muttered more to himself than anyone else, stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray.

"But... chucking him out?" Mike still couldn't quite get over the shock.

Johnny got up. "Tomorrow we start rehearsing with Gannon." He hesitated for a moment. Then pushed his shades up his nose, his lips firming into a thin line. "I'll go and talk to Andy."

Mike stared in disbelief as the door to the studio closed behind the guitarist. Then he looked at Morrissey, who was scribbling something on a postcard and using his notebook for support. Mike was willing his latent and hitherto unknown telepathic powers to finally start working and make Morrissey _do_ something.

A few minutes passed, during which Morrissey finished writing and slipped the postcard between the pages of his notebook.

Mike's telepathy: 0, Morrissey: 1. As usual.

The singer finally looked his way.

"Stop scowling or your face will get stuck like that. Although some might say it would be an improvement."

"That's not funny, Mozzer."

Morrissey sighed. "I know, but don't worry. We would love you anyway."

Mike made a frustrated noise. "I meant Andy. How can you just throw him out like that?"

Morrissey pursed his lips and looked down at the notebook in his hands. "I'm sure you do remember the disaster that was our last gig?"

"Yeah, but couldn't we do something? I dunno..." Mike slumped in his chair, suddenly feeling weary and strangely overemotional.

"As you astutely noticed, Johnny is Andy's best friend. I'm sure he knows what he's doing."

With that Morrissey got up and turned to leave. He stopped in the open door, though.

"You know, it's funny, but I don't remember you being so upset about Hibbert being replaced."

Mike rested his head on a mixing console and muttered "Piss off" even though Morrissey was already gone.

So yeah, so what if Mike couldn't be bothered when Dale was sacked? The guy couldn't even play the bass properly and it was frankly a bit of relief when Johnny got on board someone who could.

Mike remembered the day he and Andy met. With crystal clear precision.

He had showed up at a rehearsal as usual, wondering if Dale or Johnny or even Steven - though he didn't seem the type - would be up for a pint afterwards.

Only Dale wasn't there.

Instead there was some other bloke, tuning his own bass and then Johnny was pluggigng in his guitar and saying "This is Andy, the bass player."

"Hello." Mike blinked.

He received a restrained smile and a quiet "Hi" in return.

And then Johnny was playing the few songs they had for Andy the bass player's benefit and Mike thought, well shit, if the guy hadn't heard any of this before, just how was this all going to work?

And then they were off.

And Mike nearly fell in love. Not only was Andy the bass player keeping up the tempo, he was playing the lines exactly like they should've sounded and somehow never had, coming from Dale. And it all - they all, the band - suddenly clicked. Like a machine that up to this point had been missing some vital part, they were suddenly and finally made whole.

And the sense of power, the energy, was unbelievable.

Mike looked to his right and met Andy's eyes; both of them were grinning like loons.

Off to a brilliant start, what followed made Mike doubt his working relationship with Andy the bass player was going to be any good. Or indeed _be_ at all. For a couple of months it looked like it wasn't going to work. Mike poured his heart and soul into his drumming and Andy got progressively more frustrated until one day he finally snapped.

"You know that big thing in front of your kit? That's the bass drum. And just for your information, it's supposed to go with the bass guitar."

A muscle in Andy's jaw was jumping and Mike was sure that if looks could kill, he'd be dead ten times over. Stabbed with a toothpick, drowned, burnt at the stake and buried twenty feet under, judging by Andy's expression.

He decided saying he honestly didn't know about the bass drum and guitar thing - because he honestly didn't - would not be a good idea right now.

He opted for an evasive manoeuvre.

"Right, yeah, I know that. But let's just see what happens." He smiled his most winsome smile. It always worked on Tina.

Andy's eye twitched and he gripped the neck of his bass until his knuckles turned white.

Mike's smile faded a little and he gulped nervously. "All right, let's try again. I'll follow you, okay?"

Andy nodded sharply and they started again.

Mike counted that day as a definite personal success: he was still alive by the end of it and he actually learnt something.

Then they also had to work on their differing concepts of 'sustained note'. Mike was informed in no uncertain terms that it did not mean 'fill the gap'. He decided to take it to heart because it sort of looked like Andy was grinding his teeth when he told him that. Mike was pretty sure it wasn't a good sign.

And what now?

Mike sighed and leant back in his chair until he could look at the ceiling tiles. The nondescript beige didn't offer any answers.

Mike sighed again. He and Andy had been playing together for four years and they were great as an item in Mike's - admittedly maybe a little biased - opinion. Was it all about to end just because Andy had a drug problem?

Mike chewed his lip. Well, the problem in question was, truth be told, kind of serious, but all things considered Mike didn't think sacking Andy was he perfect answer.

Or, hell, maybe it was? Mike started pacing around the studio. Maybe it could give Andy the kick in the arse he obviously needed to get clean.

Fuck, it was going to be harsh. He was going to lose his... other half.

Mike blinked at the thought, but that was the bloody truth. Whoever in their life had ever heard of a band with a one-man rhythm secion? No one. And after that bumpy start he and Andy just worked together like a dream. Their partnership was just as strong as Mozzer and Johnny's. They were a team and that was bloody that. Mike found it nearly impossible to imagine Andy just not being there, on his right, whenever he looked up from behind his drum kit.

And what if that new bloke - what was his name, Craig something, who the hell cared anyway - so, what if they just weren't going to work? What if the chemistry just wasn't there?

Mike finally sat down; he'd probably already worn a groove in the carpet with all his pacing. He stared blankly at the studio door. He had a bad feeling about tomorrow.

* * *

He was half-right. The session wasn't a disaster, which was always a plus, but it wasn't great either. Craig turned out to be a nice enough lad, obviously eager to prove his worth in the band and he knew The Smiths material, which was also a plus.

When he arrived at the studio, Mike had a sort of déjà vu from a few years back when Johnny introduced to him Andy, the bass player.

Except playing with Craig the bass player was somehow anticlimatic. It was lacking in... something. Mike wasn't too sure in what. It was just lacking. And it didn't really look like it was Craig's fault - he certainly could play and the rhythm section was complete and ready to rock as far as everyone was concerned. It was just that Mike couldn't get rid of this naggign feeling that something was off.

He decided to ignore it and concentrate on the music, though, since it looked like he was imagining things. Moz and Johnny sure didn't seem to be bothered by Andy's absence. And it was, after all, possible Mike was just a bit too attached to his bass player. Well, a bit difficult not to get attached when they were virtually roped together. The whole band were, really. Spending twelve hours a day in one another's company was a norm.

As the days passed, though, Mike started noticing Johnny's occasional frowns in Craig's direction. And then there was that time about a week into working with Craig, when Morrissey turned mid-way through a song to look to his right and stopped dead for a second.

And that's when Mike realised there was definitely something weird going on, something more than just him imagining things. When a moment later he'd heard Mozzer apologising and saying to Craig "I thought you were An--never mind", Mike nearly fell off his stool.

When they had a break later, and Craig was conveniently not around, Johnny finally voiced what was on Mike's mind for all this time.

"It's not working," Johnny said tiredly, puffing on his cigarette.

Mike wanted to crow "I told you it wouldn't" but thought better of it and stayed quiet since he didn't actually _say_ anything.

"I agree." Morrissey contemplated the notebook in his hands.

Mike lit his own cigarette. "So? What now? You thinking about bringing Andy back?"

"I don't want to see him here until he's off the drugs. And able to stay that way." Morrissey looked up, his lips pressed into a thin unhappy line.

"How's he anyway?" Mike finally asked the question he chewed on since day one. "Everything all right?"

Johnny blinked through the haze of cigarette smoke. "Yeah, I think so."

"You've spoken to him?" Mike pressed, a nasty suspicion surfacing in his mind at the slightly guilty look on Johnny's face.

"Not yet," Johnny said reluctantly.

Mike stared. "You mean he was left completely alone?"

Even Morrissey glanced at Johnny a little worriedly at that.

"He's not alone and I'm not his fucking nanny," Johnny snapped, irritated. "Besides, he lives ten minutes away from his Dad and his brother."

"Oh yeah, and you should know best how much good it did when he lived _together_ with his family."

"Just fuck off, Mike," Johnny muttered, unwilling to admit in front of his bandmate that he was none too easy in his mind about Andy's well-being now.

"Right." Mike finished his cigarette in one drag and got up. "I'm off."

"Where the hell are you going? We haven't finished the rehearsal yet."

"To Andy's." Mike glared at Johnny. "Some fucking friends we are. First we boot him out of the band and then we fucking forget him. Christ."

Mike couldn't tell if he was angrier at Johnny or at himself. Some fucking friends indeed.

He gathered his things and left.

In the doorway he passed Craig who was coming back with a half-finished packet of crisps.

"Mike's off to somewhere?" Craig asked the duo that was left.

"Yeah." Johnny stubbed out his cigarette with more force than was necessary and stood up. "We're finished for today."

Craig raised his eyebrows. "Okay."

He stood for a moment, unsure what he should exactly do or say. Johnny was packing his guitar and gathering his car keys, Morrissey putting on his jacket and scarf, and there didn't seem to be much he could do or say anyway.

"Uh, so see you tomorrow, yeah?" Craig's voice was as unsure as he felt.

"Yeah, see you." Johnny went past Craig and outside.

"Bye, Morrissey." Craig waved feebly.

Morrissey inclined his head in a silent goodbye and followed the guitarist.

Well, that went well. Craig looked around the empty studio, then packed his guitar and locked the studio door. Maybe The Smiths were a great band, but they were a fucking weird bunch.

* * *

When Mike arrived at Andy's place, it was already dark. The February evenings were quick and sudden and Mike was really grateful the streetlamp in front of Andy's house was working. Otherwise, finding the spare key that was hidden under a loose brick in one of the steps leading to the front door would have been a lost cause.

Mike had tried knocking, of course, and even ringing the doorbell before reaching for that spare key, but no one answered. It was possible Andy was actually out, but Mike preferred to check for himself. He shuddered, firmly quashing the image of Andy lying on his bathroom floor, three days dead from overdose, but his heartbeat sped up with worry.

The door finally open, Mike stepped inside the darkness deeper than the evening outside. He switched on the light in the hall and moved further inside. He passed the bathroom, noting with relief the open door and the lack of a dead body.

"Andy?" he called, walking further down the corridor, but was met with silence.

He stopped in the doorway of the sitting room, seeing the glow of the flickering TV. There was also a lump on the couch.

Mike came closer and it turned out the lump was Andy wrapped in a blanket, his back illuminated by the light of some black and white film.

"Andy?"

The lump didn't move and made no sound.

"You okay?"

Still nothing. Mike felt his worry rise again.

"I'll turn on the lights." Mike was reaching for the switch, but was stopped by a muffled "No".

"Oh fuck, you're still breathing. That's good." Mike covered his relief with sarcasm, but if he expected an answer, it looked like he would be waiting in vain.

Andy remained silent.

Mike looked around the room, noting newspapers and another blanket on the floor, a few empty beer bottles and at least three packets of cigarettes - two empty and crushed - on the low table in front of the couch.

Further inspection revealed an overflowing ashtray on the floor by that end of the couch where Andy's head was resting. There was no sign of suspicious white powders, needles or tin foil. Mike thought it bode rather well.

Not finding another place to sit - no armchair and the coffee table was just too cluttered - Mike sat beside Andy. There wasn't much space: the couch was narrow, but Andy wasn't a big guy and even lying down, he was curled up, practically pressed into the backrest.

"So," Mike spoke. "How've you been, mate?"

Apparently, Andy wasn't in a conversational mood.

"The guys are good, by the way. Thanks for asking." Mike stared at the top of the blond head visible over the edge of the blanket, determined to get some sort of response from his friend.

He sighed. "Look, there's no point in sulking. You know the decision had to be made, you were in no state to play anymore."

Still nothing.

"And yeah, well, Craig's not so bad. He's actually pretty good."

In the face of complete and total lack of any sort of response from Andy, Mike decided to just tell him how the band was doing these days, what they were doing in the studio, that sort of thing. If Andy was still playing a corpse by the time Mike finished, he'd just go and leave dealing with the delicate bassist feelings to Johnny.

"So me and Johnny were like 'no way, you can't do that' and Craig said 'just watch' and then he drank about ten tequilla shots," Mike was saying, remembering the first evening out with Gannon. "And he literally fell under the table and started snoring." Mike laughed. "The next day ha said he was puking through half of the night."

Mike wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes.

"I'm telling ya, he's gonna fit right in with us."

Mike glanced at Andy who remained silent and motionless the whole time. He sighed and was getting up, preparing to leave, when he noticed Andy's blanket-covered shoulders shaking slightly. He smiled, thinking he finally got through to his bandmate and even managed to make him laugh.

"Yeah, I know, it really was hilarious."

Mike patted Andy's shoulder and was completely unprepared for the almost violent flinching his gesture caused.

"Hey, Andy, you all right there?"

Mike leant over to get a closer look at his friend, but Andy shrank back from his touch, burying himself under the blanket and pushing his face further into the pillow under his head.

"Andy?" Mike was getting worried.

"Just fuck off, will you?" emerged from under the blanket, along with a hitching breath and something that sounded suspiciously like...

Mike grabbed the covers, trying to pull them down to get a good look at Andy, but it wasn't easy. A brief tussle ensued, Andy gripping the blanket for dear life and trying his best to disappear into the couch.

Mike only narrowly avoided an elbow in his gut, but finally managed to prise the blanket from Andy's death grip (the bassist's fingers were suprisingly strong).

"Andy, look at me." Mike was now trying to wrestle him from under the pillow.

He got "Sod off, you wanker" for his efforts, but finally caught Andy's chin and turned his head towards the meagre light offered by the television screen.

Andy's face was wet with tears. They were still trickling down his cheeks, Mike noticed, a little shocked by the absolute misery and despair in Andy's eyes.

"Happy now?" Andy jerked his chin from Mike's grasp and turned away.

"Why the fuck are you even here?" he spoke into the couch's backrest and Mike had to strain to hear the words.

"I know the band's fine, I know Craig's great and I fucking know everything's fucking fantastic." The sentence ended in a definite sob.

"I know I'm replaceable and I know you don't need me hanging around." A sniff there. "So why the fuck are you telling me how wonderful life is for you? Just fuck off, Mike. Piss off and leave me alone."

Andy curled up into a ball, his shoulders shaking with sobs.

Mike was stricken.

"No, Andy, it's not like that."

Shit, what to do? Andy thought Mike just came here to rub Andy's nose in his lost dreams and that coudn't be further from the truth. He fucked this up royally.

On an impulse, Mike just went and hugged Andy: he lay down, drew his legs up and fitted himself behind him on the narrow couch.

"It's not like that, it's _not_ like that," he kept repeating into the nape of Andy's neck, clutching his friend to him.

Andy didn't respond, but he also didn't tense at Mike's touch; he just kept sobbing and it woke up something in Mike. Some part of him, the one full of good will and tenderness and love, was set free and Mike, not giving it any thought, began scattering little kisses over Andy's neck and jawline.

"Ssh, it's okay. Everything's going to be okay," Mike murmured, gently kissing Andy's ear, his breath ghosting over Andy's cheek.

There was a sudden stillness in his friend.

"What are you doing?" Andy turned his head slightly and whispered in disbelief.

Mike propped himself on his elbow so he could look at Andy. Face still wet with tears, but at least he stopped crying.

"Nothing, just..." Mike shook his head, it defied explanation.

A sudden wave of affection for his mate washed over Mike and he leant down, bringing their lips together.

The kiss was soft and gentle; it tasted of tears and was entirely one-sided.

Mike lifted his head and saw Andy looking at him with an expression of a deer caught in the headlights. Shocked into stillness.

Mike bit his lip. "S-sorry, I..." He didn't really know what to say.

"It's fine." Andy's voice was strained. He licked his lips nervously and then seemed embarrassed by the action.

He looked anything but fine.

Mike sighed and dropped his forehead to Andy's shoulder. What the fuck was he doing anyway?

"We're not okay without you, Andy." He finally decided to tell the bassist the ugly truth. "Not okay at all. We need you. I need you."

Andy stayed silent.

Mike finally sat up, his hand lingering on Andy's chest.

"If you need anything..." He shook his head and started anew. "The guys, Mozzer and Johnny, said you could come back when you... you know," he hesitated, but there was no elegant way to put it. "When you stop doing drugs."

Well, that was what their conversation earlier today had really amounted to.

"So, if you need anything..."

Andy was quiet, but his eyes were wide, looking at Mike like he'd never seen him before in his life; watching for any sudden moves.

'Brilliant,' Mike thought. 'You've probably scarred him for life.'

"Right. I'll... I'll just be off then, yeah?" Mike got up, though in reality he had no wish to go.

Andy's eyes followed his movements.

"Bye."

"Yeah, bye." Andy sounded a little hoarse.

'Yeah, bloody brilliant,' Mike thought fatalistically and left.

* * *

The next day when they were eating a late dinner, still at the studio, Johnny switched on a small TV set they had there. Just in time to see the news.

_"Today, after a successful operation of the police anti-drug team, a number of people were arrested. Among them, Andy Rourke, a member of a popular pop group, The Smiths."_

Johnny cursed, Morrissey rested his forehead in his palm and as the newsreader droned on, Mike could only think it was all his fault.

**Author's Note:**

>  **1.** In reality the rehearsals with Craig were held at Johnny's house.  
>  **2.** I never write guys crying because I always feel it's a bit OOC (to be fair, in my other fandoms it is). This time, though, I've got Andy's words to justify it. In "Inside The Smiths" documentary, he said about his time away from the band: "I spent two to three weeks just sobbing."


End file.
